Don't You Dare

by A J Waines

  The pub in Southampton. Bernie’s account of the night of the big party. A teenage girl was killed when a flying brick sent her into the path of a car. A brown Ford Cortina.

  I hear my breath come out in shuddering bursts in the darkness. That’s what Grandad used to drive in the nineties. I’d seen it in one of the photographs I’d found.

  A clanging, grating sound breaks my train of thought. It reminds me of a clunky fairground ride and I get a weird sinking feeling like I’m going over big bumps in the road.

  Was that the ‘bad thing’ that happened in Southampton? Was Grandad there? Was he the driver who accidentally killed a teenage girl? Had he been living with the trauma of it ever since? Why hadn’t someone explained it to me? Why the big secret? It didn’t make sense. I flap my hand in front of my face. It’s so hot in here, I can hardly breathe.

  Focus.

  What happened after I got back to Abbots Worthy and made my mint tea? I was climbing the stairs to get ready for bed, that’s right. Then what?

  Ah, that’s when I heard it. The beep of a car horn right outside the house, short toots, insistent. The cottages are spread out, so I’m not sure anyone else would have taken much notice.

  I didn’t want the racket to wake Grandad, so I stepped out into the front garden. It was dark and I was still in an old pair of slippers.

  A Land Rover had pulled up in the middle of the road, with the engine running and the near door wide open, illuminating the front seats. I thought the driver must have hit a badger or a fox and had got out to check.

  ‘Hello?’ I called out into the sticky gloom. ‘Are you okay? What’s happened?’ Rain was in the air and the wind was spoiling for a fight.

  I heard nothing in response so I approached the open car door.

  As I’m thinking back, the pictures in my head start jumping around like flash photography. An arm around my neck, a shove in my back, a clumpy boot stamping on my toes. I tried to call out, but a gloved hand was slapped over my nose and mouth, cutting off my air. I kicked out and punched with all my might, but I could hardly breathe. Scrabbling for air, I tried to keep my balance and fought back, but a sack was flung over my head and I was bundled forward. There was a metallic thud and acute pain shot through my knees as I landed. I curled into a foetal position to protect myself.

  All I remember after that was a blue-black darkness. I didn’t see or hear anyone – no faces, no voice. Just the smell of leather gloves, damp tweed and hessian.

  It seems ages since I woke and I realise how thirsty I am. I feel around for a sink or bottle of water and my foot stumbles into a plastic bucket by the mattress. I reach down, but it’s dry inside. A sting of bile reaches the back of my throat as the reason it’s there dawns on me.

  I pat my way around the walls until eventually I trip over something that sends splashes over my bare feet. I squat down and find a plastic jug. Cautiously, I sniff the contents, then dip my finger in and taste the tiniest drop. It seems to be plain water, but even though my tongue is crusty with dehydration, I take only a small sip and swallow, then wait a second or two. It’s lukewarm, but otherwise there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with it, so I take down long gulps, coughing and choking as I tip up too much at once. A judder beneath me sends me lurching to one side, so I clutch the jug to my chest, desperate to stop the water from spilling. I need to think. Is this Mum’s doing? Is this some half-baked idea to get me to come to my senses?

  No. Surely, she’d never go to such despicable lengths.

  41

  Rachel

  I can’t believe what I’ve done. I’ve dispelled all Peter’s doubts and confirmed that the wedding is unquestionably on. Not only have I made him believe that Beth is here, but that she’s one hundred per cent definitely going to be at St James’s Church on Saturday.

  After my final euphoric outburst as Beth, I went into the bathroom and wiped the tears from my face before joining him on the landing, as Rachel. He looks dazed when I creep up behind him.

  ‘How is she?’ I say, deliberately taking the register of my voice down, as far away from Beth’s natural range as possible.

  His hand is still holding the handle to the locked door. ‘Well, I’m very worried about her,’ he whispers, ‘but she wants it to go ahead. She still wants us to get married.’

  ‘Oh, that’s fabulous news.’ I press my hand over my heart and turn to him, no longer afraid to let him see my eyes are watery. ‘Is she coming out?’

  ‘She says she wants to rest.’ He moves away from her door and heads for the stairs. ‘I don’t want to push it.’

  I follow him down. When he gets to the bottom he stops. He labours over his next words, rubbing his chin. ‘I’m worried she might be clinically depressed,’ he says.

  My eyes stretch wide. ‘Really?’ I look down. ‘It’s my fault. I’ve been preoccupied with the wedding and doing too many shifts at the pub…I hadn’t realised she was so bad.’ I chew the inside of my cheek. ‘She’s been moody and withdrawn, but I thought it was just a mother-daughter thing, you know? Wanting to spread her wings and all that.’

  He stands back, leans against the edge of the sofa. ‘I think we should get her to the GP as soon as possible, don’t you?’ He glances at his watch. ‘Too late today, obviously.’ He thinks for a moment. ‘What about A&E, perhaps we should get her over there straight away?’

  I can’t believe this farce is still going on. I glance at the hairband dangling over the newel post, the asparagus fern splayed over the window ledge in the porch. Everything looks deceptively normal.

  ‘Wait…’ I swing round, my mind on overdrive. ‘Let me give the surgery a call. The GP can sometimes do visits out of hours. My phone’s upstairs – I’ll be back in a tick.’

  I re-join him minutes later.

  ‘We just have to hang on until tomorrow,’ I tell him, tossing my hair back with a flourish of fake relief. ‘The GP is going to fit Beth in first thing.’

  ‘And you’ll keep a firm eye on her until then?’

  ‘Of course. I won’t go anywhere.’

  He studies my face. ‘You look a bit flushed, you okay?’

  ‘Just relieved...’

  He squeezes my arm and we drift back to the kitchen.

  ‘What will you do, now?’ I ask him. I need to get him away from the house at all costs, out of Winchester altogether until Saturday.

  ‘I’ve got to get back to London.’ He moves towards the lounge, looking for his briefcase and returns with it. ‘Actually…’ he pulls a haggard face, ‘I could really do with a drink first.’

  I want nothing more than to get him out of here, but what can I do?

  Thankfully, due to our recent cutbacks, there’s very little alcohol left in the house. I open the cupboard next to the oven and pull out the bottle with the least amount left in it.

  ‘Brandy okay?’

  He nods with a weary sigh and plonks himself down on a wooden chair.

  He’s understandably emotionally exhausted, but also reassured, believing Beth has declared she’s definitely going to marry him on Saturday. When he empties his glass I feel obliged to refill it. Half an hour goes by, then forty-five minutes. He starts telling me anecdotes about famous people he’s met and I’m trying to smile in all the right places, sticking to tap water, pretending that everything is hunky dory.

  He’s come a long way and thinks the woman who’s just confirmed that all his dreams are shiny and intact is having a nap, only a few metres away. All the while, I’m dreading the sound of the front latch. Beth could slip in her key and finally come home at any time. I’m about to suggest we call it an evening, when Peter’s phone rings. My mind leaps to the dire notion that in some ironic topsy-turvy reality it could be her finally getting in touch.

  As he fumbles to find his phone, a raw charge of anguish flushes through my body when I realise that the countdown to Beth’s wedding is also the countdown to her leaving me.

  I’ve thrown myself into the wedding like it’s
my own, like it’s going to take me to a brighter, better place, but once the initial joy has blown over, I’ll be left behind. I’m not the least bit ready for losing her.

  I hear the frantic jabbering of a woman’s voice at the other end as soon as Peter answers the call. He gets up and mouths ‘sorry’, then sidles into the sitting room.

  When he returns, his shoulders are hunched.

  ‘That was Amelia,’ he says.

  My heart leapfrogs a beat. ‘Amelia?’ I swallow. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Not coping well at all. She’s doing erratic, odd things by the sound of it.’ He falters. ‘How did you cope after Russell died. Is it okay to ask?

  ‘It’s fine. I think the situation is slightly different. Whilst Russell’s death came sooner than we all expected, he was terminally ill. I can’t imagine what Amelia’s going through.’

  He leans an arm on the back of his chair. ‘Her friend isn’t helping. Nancy. She’s off her rocker – neurotic and dangerous. She’s encouraging Amelia to go down all kinds of blind alleys.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Nancy is making everything worse. She thinks she’s helping, but…’ He looks straight ahead. ‘Because of her meddling, Amelia has got it into her head that Carl had a bit of a thing going with…with Beth.’

  I let out a raucous laugh. ‘How can either of them possibly think that?’

  He takes his seat again, resting his elbows on the table. ‘Well, there’s the pendant I told you about, a photo someone took at a meet-and-greet party ages ago, the call she made to him…’

  I can feel sweat prickling my forehead.

  ‘Oh, yeah, Beth told me about that, but it was completely innocent. She rang him to ask for advice on getting her foot on the acting ladder. To be honest, she’d had a bit to drink and she should never have called him.’

  ‘Exactly…and I think the call was only a couple of minutes,’ he said.

  ‘It’s true that Beth also bumped into him at Winchester station one evening, but she didn’t recognise him or speak to him. He was here for the theatre, I think, certainly nothing to do with Beth.’

  ‘Anyway, now Amelia is saying she’s found Beth’s phone number in Carl’s belongings.’

  I throw myself back in my chair, almost tipping it backwards. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s all neurotic nonsense. She said it’s written in a kind of obscure code.’

  I stare at him with a perplexed frown. ‘What kind of code?’

  He lifts his shoulders into a shrug. ‘Who knows? Sounds like some sort of private cypher Amelia and Carl shared for security passwords. Something so off the wall that no one else, and that includes the police, can make head nor tail of it – apart from Nancy, that is, who is saying it’s obvious.’ He lets out a heavy sigh. ‘She’s been goading Amelia to convince me to pull out of the wedding…’

  I tut along with him as if the whole thing is outrageous.

  ‘The crazy thing is, she’s even harassing the police to arrest Beth. Honestly…’ He rubs his eyes. ‘It’s not the first time Amelia has lost the plot. A few years ago her son, Alex, was ill and she was convinced the specialist he was seeing was trying to kill the boy. She wrote to the hospital and the local papers claiming the surgeon had suggested an operation when it wasn’t necessary. Of course, the boy recovered, and it was all brushed under the carpet, but she gets these deranged notions, especially if Nancy is stoking the fire.’

  He checks his watch. ‘I need to think about getting back to London.’

  I get to my feet and make a move towards the door, then change direction and turn towards the sink to rinse the glasses. I don’t want to seem keen to get rid of him.

  ‘Better check the trains,’ he says, swiping the screen on his phone.

  ‘The next one is five minutes past the hour,’ I say, casually, resting his glass on the draining rack. ‘You should have time to catch that.’ I dry my hands and follow him to the foot of the stairs.

  He stops and groans as he stares at the screen. ‘There’s been a fatality on the line near Eastleigh and no trains are getting through.’ He checks his watch again. ‘I’ll stay in a hotel just for tonight and get going first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Oh…’

  That’s all I need. Peter still hanging around.

  ‘I’d suggest staying here, but…under the circumstances…’

  We both look up towards Beth’s room.

  ‘No,’ he puts his hand out, ‘no need, honestly. I’ll keep out of your hair for the final preparations.’

  I suggest the Royal Winchester as a place to stay and give him instructions on how to get there. Finally, I close the front door behind him.

  I go up to my room and slide the curtain aside an inch. Just enough to make sure he really is leaving the street, then I call Beth’s phone. When there’s no reply, I try Adrian. Beth still hasn’t come back.

  The next time I see Peter will be on Saturday at St James’s Church. My hands go cold and clammy at the thought.

  42

  Beth

  I’ve completely lost track of time, lying here with a pounding headache. The perpetual darkness is unbearable. It could be morning, evening or the middle of the night, I’ve no way of knowing. I can’t see a thing. I close my eyes and it makes no difference. My brain has started making up geometric patterns in different colours in the air, green and red mostly, to give it something to do.

  I’ve already felt around for a light switch, but I try again. Maybe I missed it. Along with the dank, oily smell there’s an undercurrent of something fishy, like burning rubber. It makes me want to retch, even though I’m also getting hungry.

  If only I’d had my phone on me, even if I couldn’t reach it, it would be trackable, but I know for a fact that I left it on Grandad’s sofa. I’m still wearing what I had on when I stepped into the front garden; my jeans and a scruffy polo shirt. I had nothing else on me except for an old pair of slippers from the box-room. During my tentative explorations around this tiny space I haven’t come across them.

  As I feel my way to the jug again, I lurch heavily to one side as the floor tilts. It’s then I realise why I’m feeling queasy – all the rolling and churning. We’re not on the road – I’m on a boat.

  What’s going on?

  Is this Peter’s doing? Has he borrowed Carl’s yacht again? A ridiculous abduction to make sure I’m where I’m meant to be on Saturday to say ‘I do’?

  I think back to the evening we shared on the luxury boat on the Thames and listen hard to the sound of the engine. There’s a thrumming, purring quality that seems familiar. Is this the same one?

  No, it can’t be. Peter adores me. He’d never put me through something like this.

  Where am I being taken? I could be half way to France for all I know. With a surge of rage I drop to all fours and scrabble around for the bucket, then ram it against the door time after time.

  ‘What the hell is this?!’ I yell. ‘Help me, please. Some-bo-dy!’

  There’s no response. All that happens is the engine throbs and we seem to pick up speed. I flop back down on the mattress and stare into the darkness. I’m still woozy, drifting in and out of dozing. In spite of the uneven rocking to tell me otherwise, I feel like I’m underground, trapped deep within the bowels of the earth. The thought leads straight to the night we hacked at the soil to make a pit and buried Carl. We stuffed his body down and…

  Stop!

  I can’t go there. Not here. Not now.

  I try to bend my mind towards comforting memories and find myself drifting off into a story Mum told me when I was about two years old. We were in the kitchen and she was cooking and she left me briefly to answer the front door. When she came back, she couldn’t find me anywhere. She screamed the house down, calling my name, checking every room, looking behind the sofa, the chairs, inside the cupboard under the stairs.

  In the end, she found me in the cabinet under the sink, happily sitting amidst the bottles of washing-up
liquid and fabric softener. I’ve got the photo to prove it. When she asked me what I was doing in there, apparently, I replied in a solemn tone with the words: ‘I’m thinking.’ I don’t remember it, but I’ve laughed with her many times as we’ve relived that little scene together.

  We were unfailingly in tune when I was growing up. Even when Russell came along, she always put me first. Mum never made a fuss when I dyed all my underwear black during my Goth stage and we all had stained fingertips for weeks afterwards. I remember I made a cake for a friend’s birthday and decorated it to look like an ashtray, complete with cigarette butts made of icing. It was gross, but Mum didn’t bat an eyelid and told everyone it was ‘very clever.’ During my arty phase, I insisted that everything had to be homemade; clothes, birthday cards, jam, every meal – nothing could come out of a tin or packet. I brought home lopsided pots and vases I’d made at school, pinned drawings on the sitting room walls and had a fetish for painting stencils above every dado in the house. She put up with it all. We shared everything like best friends and she could almost read my mind. Things have changed radically.

  The thought of her stings my eyes and I feel tears trickle down my face and into my mouth. She must be out of her mind with worry, wondering where I’ve got to.

  Or is she?

  What if she thinks I’ve done a runner just to get back at her? What if she’s going to hang fire and wait for me to sort myself out, do nothing until I turn up again on the doorstep. That would be the worst possible thing she could do, because it would mean there’s no one out there looking for me.

  I shudder uncontrollably at the thought, my gut churning as I feel dizzy, shaky, seasick and helpless all in one. My hands shake as I touch my face to clear the tears. I cross my arms over my chest and hug myself in a desperate bid to feel safe. I curl up, burying myself in the blanket. The engine rumbles on, steady, unrelenting, filling up the lonely space around me.